The Monster's Wife(41)

She said it sweetly, knowing that was worse than if she’d snarled and slammed the door. A few scraps of her anger crumbled away at doing this small unkindness.

Her words weren’t lost on Andrew. His lips flinched and he nodded, dazed, and slouched away down the sheep path, past the byre, towards the surge of the sea. The darkness made ghosts of the rushes that were washed by the rattling burn. Andrew faded into it and only stars pricking out patterns round the cliffs gave any light.

Out in the firth, the fish slept open-eyed and dreamt of nets. The Elver lay on the empty beach and kept May’s whereabouts a secret.





36


The thought of paying Cormick another visit gave Oona about as much pleasure as the thought of clearing cow dung from the byre, but she’d skimped on her morning duties at the big house to give herself time to find what he knew about May.

She rounded the hill, her boots pushing softly into thick, black heather. Behind her cows lowed for the milk pail. She looked over her shoulder towards their call and saw the westerly wind take a twist of smoke from the chimney at Norquoy and spin a fine ply towards the clouds.

Beyond Quoy the cliffs stretched like a penance. Every day she walked them alone, looked out over the firth alone, watching ships sail out into the world, and every day the likelihood of seeing May drifted further away from her. She slipped her hand into her pocket, running her fingers over the scrap of wool from the Elver. Maybe there was a chance still. She strode over the cliffs, tense with hope.

Over rocks bearded with slimy green weed, she made her way silently, eyes on the kirkyard of festering boats Cormick kept. A shriek broke the quiet. She looked up to see a buzzard, dark and rumpled as a shawl flung from the cliff top, another hunter in a world full of hunters, sharp-billed, keen to draw blood.

The tide crept up the beach shyly. Foamy water sucked at her ankle bones. She half expected to see a hand float towards her, or some mockery of nature, an undead freak from the big house. Had this all begun that night with the storm and the crates? Perhaps it was their punishment for colluding with the doctor in making a Hell out of Eden.

Her feet crunched the husks of seahorses, smashed lugworm cases. She pinched her nose against the stench of Cormick’s midden, nodding to the cat that slunk out to stare at her with witchy eyes. Its owner reeled out behind it, the look on his face a good deal less friendly.

“One thing I can’t abide is folk charging in here.”

“I must ask you something about May.”

“May? I’ve not seen her,” Cormick’s jaw toiled a short time between each word, “not for a very long while.” He turned away.

She recoiled at his obvious lie, wishing it were possible to intimidate him as Stuart or Big Dod would, to challenge him to a fight. Even if she never knew the truth, it would provide some small release for the grief and anger that had built in her since May disappeared.

“You saw us only the other day. I discovered that vessel of yours, the Elver, with a piece of her shawl in it.”

Cormick turned and drew inside the shack. Oona pulled back the curtain-door, blinking at the darkness. Though the drapes were ragged, they did a good job of keeping out the light. The cat pushed between her legs, purring, and stalked over to the fire where it curled up and began to lap at its hind leg. She followed it inside. The shack stank of whisky and fish oil and was nearly as foul as the midden.

Cormick delved his hands under the half-mended net that shrouded the table. “Always coming here carping. Always borrowing things without a by your leave, and women the worst of it.” He lifted his stained jersey to hunt in his pockets. The bone handle of a fish knife gleamed over the top of his breeks. He pulled a clay pipe from his pocket and gave it a good whack on the table. A clot of dark dottle went flying. “Women the worst of it. Grasping hands. Devilish fluttering hands.” He jammed the pipe between his gums.

It was hard to keep her own hands from fluttering to his throat, the way he was talking. “This is babble and gibberish. I know you had some covenant with May, for I know she had coin to pay you from Stuart. Was it her fare?”

He lit his pipe from the fire. “Pay me no mind, lass. I like to talk. I like to sing.” He broke into a grin.

It was maddening to see him, miles from the real world now when she needed an answer. She had half a mind to snatch the pipe out of his hands but she knew that it would do more harm than good.

She took a step closer, towering over him now. She was brittle as a wafer inside her tall frame, but he didn’t need to know that. “She’d purchased passage to the mainland. I’m certain of it. Where did you leave her?” She made her voice low and cold as she’d heard the men talk in the Smokehouse when they’d a bone to pick.

His grin faded. He scratched at his black stocking hat. “I don’t ken a May. I ken you. Take a pew. Take a pew.”

He gestured round the room grandly, as if pointing out a chair, but there was none, except in the bedroom. Anything a guest might sit on was clarted with old nets, creels and pieces of boats. On the table, a herring lay open with a knife inside it. When his gesturing fingers brushed the handle, she wasn’t slow to notice. Dark spots were visible on the blade.

“There’s blood on your knife,” she said, quietly. Her throat was dry. “Was May short on her payment?” She stood her ground, measuring the distance between Cormick and the sill and the door. “Things have befallen us... Bad things. We are tangled in something... May might have wished to escape it. I would understand. I could understand if she—” It was the first time she had said this or even thought it: that May might have wanted to leave and had more than good reason to, and that she understood.